-A young poet's adventure in making it to the big time, dream-

Claudette Colbert Requiem

I reasoned there was a process to becoming famous,

but I didn’t know what it was. So I abandoned my oil paint-
splattered jeans in favor of slacks and sport jacket, grabbed my stuff

and headed to New York City, where I went in for one of those
Thursday night "Open Mic" offerings and once there, I sat

at a small, round, cocktail table for two with a little candle in the middle,
aflame inside a red, fish-netted goblet, showed my I.D., ordered a highball,
choked-down a long Pall Mall, fidgeted with my Zippo 
and was first to be called up by a funny M.C. wearing a tuxedo.

So I walked on stage and began reading my poems with, I must say,
surprising adroitness with only a hint of vocal quavering. 

I planned on reading six short poems, but only managed to read three,

each curiously received; curious, in that sounds of muffled discomfort
and outright hostility from the audience, mingled with a sprinkling
of apathetic applause.

The M.C. bounded back to the stage, patted me on the back

with a “Let’s give him a big hand, folks!.. He’s from up north”! 

I decided to stick around for awhile to listen to some other poets,

but the next guy just told some dirty jokes and a horrible story about his wife,

all the while praising the physical appearance of the audience.

I said: “Hey! what is this place”?

M.C. said: “It’s called a "Comedy Club", kid. You did good. Nobody laughed”.

In most dreams, the Express Bus home usually takes about three and a half hours.

                                                                             19(34) 19(65) 2016?